Stumble, Then Fall
by You're lame assbutt
Summary: Based off a very detailed request given to me on Tumblr. Fem!Sherlock, future Parent!lock: Sherlock has read every letter John has placed on her gravestone once a week, for three years. Sherlock reads the most recent, and learns that John is leaving London to live with Harry to cure the depression he has fallen into. Full information in author's note, horrible summary. JOHNLOCK
1. Prologue: Dear, Sherlock

**A/N**

**This was in fact a very detailed request from someone on Tumblr. Here is what they asked for in a nutshell:**

_**-At least 10 chapters**_

_**-Fem!lock, female Sherlock, Male John.**_

_**-Sherlock comes back from the dead after three years, angsty reunion**_

_**-Emotionally violent Sherlock, in-denial John**_

_**-Sherlock admits to being in a mid-life crisis, comes to a realization that she does want a baby. Questions her sanity because of.**_

_**-Admittingly wants to start a family with John, being the only man she trusts enough to get close to.**_

_**-Several sex scenes/ trying for a child**_

_**-Virgin Sherlock**_

_**I'm not regretting tackling this idea. I'm regretting that fact that I'm starting a 10+ chapter fic when I have a month left before school starts.**_

_**I plan to update this at the very least twice a week, if anyone is interested. Review and favourite, please. **_

_**Thank you.**_

* * *

Prologue: Dear Sherlock.

"Dear Sherlock:

It has been three years, and I'm not exactly sure how many letters I have left here. It's also been three years since your burial, and I'm still trying my best to move on. I've explained this what seems like a million times to you. Rather, written these words and left them here on your grave. While it may seem like I'm rambling (Or, it may just feel like I am) this will actually be my last letter. This will be the end of my visits, and the last time I will physically stand over your grave. I refuse to let myself be tortured by the fact you are so close, yet so far away by doing so. Therefore, Harry has been a huge help to me these past three years – Although Lestrade, and Mycroft have tried, they aren't the most social, nor even close to understanding most anything – Harry has offered me to stay with her in Cambridge.

"There isn't much left for me here, Sherlock. After Mrs. Hudson's burial, I feel no reason to stay at 221B. It seems all my ties to London are dying away, and I fear I may be next if I stay here.

"I've packed most my things, and will be ready within the next week for departure. I will be leaving your items to Mycroft and your family. Mycroft has taken over the building of 221B, and been offering me advances on rent in return of staying in London. Your brother is awfully set on my staying in London; if I didn't know any better, I'd say he _wanted_ be to be here.

"Sherlock, I miss you. I don't know what I'm doing with out you.

"It was hard for me to admit how I felt about you when you were still alive. When you had me on the phone before you…" Several attempts at writing a single word were scribbled out frantically on the paper, making the legibility almost non-existent, despite John's messy handwriting. "before you jumped. I was so close to telling you "I love you, don't jump. Don't leave me." But, I highly doubt you'd decide against your determination to end your life if I admitting my feelings toward you. You always were stubborn, that way. But, I—"

It seemed as though John wasted half of the ink within his pen trying to delete what he wished he hadn't written.

" –Sherlock, there is not a single person in this world that can convince me you ever told me a lie. It's not possible, I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. You meant the world to me. You were always capable before, so please, I ask one more time: give me a miracle.

Goodbye, Sherlock.

I love you.

John Watson "

It took Sherlock a cab ride from the cemetery to the door of 221B to even comprehend the words John had formed on the paper. It was something hard to admit for the extensive knowledge inside the brain of London's own consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. She knew exactly what John's words meant, but had no clue how to string them together. They were words that almost broke Sherlock's almost-non-existent world in two at the realization: John was leaving London. Sherlock had spent the last tree years re-reading each letter John has left at her headstone. His messy, curly handwriting was what was keeping her alive in the tediously dull days of occupying a hotel room alone on the other side of Croydon with nothing but a few messages from her brother to keep her company.

What didn't make sense, though, about John's most recent letter, was John's almost desperate attempt at leaving London to live with his sister, and Mycroft's inability to keep John sated. It was now up to the Holmes' daughter, then, to keep Doctor Watson in place, though, to her, it was a selfish act.

Selfisness hadn't bothered Sherlock before she topped the final 17-step hike up the bannister to the door of 221B. Now, she contemplated to herself what he actions consisted of: and attempt to keep John rooted to where he belonged on Baker Street, and the sudden revelation of the same man that the woman he believed to have taken her own life was alive, and therefore trying to keep him rooted to where he belonged on Baker Street.

It never occurred to Sherlock, until now, that it was John's way of coping with the end of her own life was moving to live with his sister, far away from the life he had once lead with the consulting detective. This was his way of healing from the past, and Sherlock, suddenly showing up after three years of a faked suicide, would reopen a gaping wound the doctor was in the very least attempting to suture on his own.

This was selfishness, because Sherlock would happily admit that she would miss John if he left, just in the very same way John missed her at this very moment.

Selfish, she though, her face falling into her hands as she stood outside the door to the flat she once shared with the army doctor. A life they both lead, happily, together. Sherlock missed it.

She was never one for confronting her emotions.


	2. Chapter 1: Reunion

Chapter 1. Reunion.

Since that day, John had told himself that he was okay. Even as he struggled to find the motivation to even dress appropriately. As he soon began to lose track of the idea of when a normal day starter—Usually at day-time, right? Even as he saw his therapist, her strong, demanding voice urging him to continue his blog. Even when he found use of that aluminum cane once again, pulling it from the depths of his closet in hopes of ridding of the pain in his left leg.

Even so, He was okay. He had to be.

It was also okay that he wanted to cry, though he told himself it wasn't. It was okay, because John felt as though he had nothing. There was a gaping hole on the surface of his chest, one that reached deep down into the pit of his stomach, even occasionally making him physically sick. This hole was caused by a woman whose name he dare speak aloud, but instead write; every week for three years.

It was okay to cry, because John was human, humans feel. Emotions are inevitable, everyone feels _something_, _sometimes._ And at the moment, John felt overwhelmed: the doctor stood, cane in hand, hovering over a group of boxes he knew were Sherlock's. These boxes contained thousands of files filled to the brim of notes from cases; murders, triple homicides, kidnappings, suicides. Everything you can think of, written in Sherlock's delicate, curly—almost intricate handwriting.

He wouldn't cry.

Those cases were ones they had encountered together. Those nights spent with countless cups of coffee, what seemed to be thousands of manila folders and photography prints, and the effects of sleep-deprivations and caffeine overdose. When that moment came of realization on the detective's end, no matter the hour, she would call Lestrade and list off everything over the phone like an excited child, a subtle, yet animated gleam in those beryl-green eyes of hers. Rosy lips chattering away, hardly annunciating syllables needed for comprehension.

It were those little moments when John understood he was in love with this woman. That he would do anything for her, even meaning he'd lose his own life. It were the little moments like how they sat up, to all hours of the night, saying nothing to each other (Because Sherlock refused to be disturbed in her thinking process) drinking cup, after cup of tea, just basking in each other's presence. Or how the two lingered in the staircase, breathless and floating on the lingering high of running around London, following a suspected murderer.

It was moments like now that John understood he was truly alone.

Days wasted away in the armchair, still imagining Sherlock's feminine form gracing the molded space on the sofa. Hours spent _hoping_ to ever deity he could think of that he knew that, that woman would run down the steps, yelling at John to ready himself because there was something to see down at the Yard.

John was alone, now.

He hadn't Mrs. Hudson popping in to make sure he was eating appropriately. Mycroft didn't understand. It wasn't Lestrade's division to deal with John's depression.

_And Sherlock was dead._

John didn't want to touch Sherlock's things. Her things needed to stay where they were, _untouched. _John had felt guilty when he moved the boxes of case work from the shelves behind the other chairs. They will now stay where they sat on the floor of the parlour.

If he listened hard enough, John could hear frantic footsteps climbing the staircase outside the door. It wasn't real, John told himself, ignoring the footsteps as they closed in on his current position.

John was silently check-listing items he had packed when the door opened with a low squeak, followed by a loud _thud_. The blond turned just in time to witness something he thought wasn't real.

_Sherlock._

The brunette stood in the doorway, long, pale and slender fingers gripping tightly around the brass knob.

"Don't leave!" She managed to free her voice, coherently making words appropriate to the thoughts that raced through her mind.

John didn't respond. He couldn't respond. Instead, he stood there, shocked in disbelief. A little buzz in the back of his head, screaming that none of this was real. That he was dreaming.

And suddenly, he wasn't okay.

Sherlock was there, in all her statuesque glory. She was alive, and standing in the doorway, panting and breathless from running up those steps. Her hair was longer, her curls more prominent, untamed even. Those dark curls fell forward, somewhat like a frame to those wild, predatory-like beryl green eyes and pallid cheekbones. Sherlock didn't look significantly different from the years before. She was still tall and taut in her appearance, still brash and impulsive in mindset. Hell, she even wore the same long, thick, pea coat and navy scarf.

John could feel his face swell up, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock's ears perked at the mention of her name. Three years since she heard John's voice say her name. It had been taken for granted, before. Little things like this were long forgotten, and Sherlock would do anything to have them back. It would have been music to the brunette's ears, if John's voice wasn't so broken, and hopeless. Actually, all of John was broken and almost utterly abandoned. He looked as though he hadn't cared for himself, and if he did, it was with half the effort. Those dark blue, aporetic eyes were red from lack of sleep and swollen with the promise of tears. Blond hair, that was normally neatly combed had been neglected and disheveled. He stood, though, despite his demeanour putting all weight on the aluminum cane, the obviousness of the pain in his left leg; the problem with psychosomatic pain is that is it painfully real, and it brought the carrier real-life agony.

And agony was what John was feeling as the two made eye contact. Actually, it was a mixture between several emotions: Agony being one of them, anger, relief, horror… Shock. While Sherlock, on the other hand, bit back a smile, excited to the fact that John hadn't left before she had gotten there.

"Don't leave, do you hear me?" Sherlock's voice was demanding, the corners of her lips twitching, biting back a very inappropriate smile.

In response to Sherlock's demand, John tried his damnedest to snap out of the daze he found himself in

"And why not?"

Sherlock retracted, straightening her form and planting her arms firmly at her sides, annunciating clearly as she spoke: "I have read your letters, John. You stated that you have feelings for me, several times, may I add. I believe you are running from London to try and cope with your unrequited feelings that were left unanswered in my death. You can no longer stay in a home that holds so many memories."

She stopped, taking a deep breath, watching John carefully.

"It hurts."

The last two words came as a surprise to John, the words spoken By the woman, softly and full of emotion, as if they were delicate and would break if said too quickly.

"What?"

Sherlock took in a breath, preparing herself to go further in explanation when John continued to speak.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" His voice was now irate, filling slowly with rage. "You come back after three bloody years, begging me to stay? What reason do I have to stay? What's _keeping me here?_"

It had taken a few seconds. John's questions still lingering in the stale air between them. Sherlock, though, responded by raising her hands, placing them against the top of her breasts.

"I'm alive, though." She stated rather flatly.

"You're not real!"

Denial was what flooded John now, he'd slowly come to the conclusion that this had to be a dream. None of it was real. Sherlock was dead, she was not standing right in front of him, begging him to stay.

Sherlock simply stood in the threshold, her face fallen into a plain expression, her hands falling from her chest and returning to her sides.

"John, look at me." She began, taking a step forward. "I'm alive, and healthy. I'm standing here, aren't I?"

John's eyes searched the woman before him as she stepped closer, closing the gap between their bodies. He was looking at her alright, in everything but a believing manner. She was here, yes, but where was '_here'?_ This wasn't real, it had to be a dream. The conclusion John came to was the end of it, he though, shutting his eyes. He thought if he willed it away, avoiding the memory he was trying to live, it would all disappear.

He thought that, and it seemed logical, that it, until he felt well-manicured fingers he knew all-too-well slide around his wrists, pulling them upward.

The aluminum cane dropped to the floor with a loud thud, the doctor's eyes shot open only to fall into the pools of green-blue that were Sherlock's beautiful eyes.

"_I'm alive._" She spoke clearly and fluently, the hands she guided falling to grip her hips. John's fingers wrapped gently around the tightness of her tiny waist, drowning in the fact that he wanted to touch this woman like this for god-knows how long.

"You're alive." The words fell from John's lips next. Sherlock nodded, she fought back the urge to roll her eyes at the tediousness of this unnecessary turn of communication. It was like walking a toddler through the basic procedures of open-heart surgery.

"Yes, yes. Now that we've demolished your denial, I suggest we proceed into getting my liveliness situated back into every-day life. Just as it was." She didn't move as she expected herself to. Instead, Sherlock stood in John's grip, his fingers wrapped affectionately around her hip bones. Moments had passed, and neither of the two said a word, instead, desperately found ways to occupy their brains with something other than the fact that they were now holding each other, the position intensifying. Sherlock's arms soon brought themselves up to rest against the tops of John's shoulders, and the doctor's arms had tightened around Sherlock's waist, pressing their chests together.

"Sherlock?" John's whisper startled the both of them, both looking back to stare each other in the face, the air a bit stale and slightly awkward between the two. Sherlock nodded in response, blinking several times, trying to read what John was trying to say with every emotion flittering behind his eyes in relentless motions only she could see. She had finally given up on trying to memorise the patterns of these emotions when she noticed a change in atmosphere, John's lips pursing with the idea of something he wished to accomplish.

It was obvious, really. She knew what was about to come.

Expecting the same motion to be completed by the doctor, the one she hadn't physically seen in over three years, Sherlock dove in, leaning in to quickly snatch his lips in hers, pressing in to what she knew as he first kiss.


End file.
